Eliot Pattison - Beautiful Ghosts

When he was aware again, the clouds were much higher, most of the lights on the far shore extinguished. He stared at the little sticks in his hand, gradually remembering where he was. Then he tossed the sticks on the planks in front of him and divided them into three random groups, picked up the first group and began counting it, using the centuries-old method to build the tetragrams that in the Tao tradition were used to invoke verses of the Tao te Ching. It was never as random as it seemed, his grandfather had always told Shan, for the sticks, like the thrower, obeyed a certain destiny. After several minutes he had built a tetra-gram of two lines of two segments over a line of three segments, and a bottom line of two segments. It indicated chapter forty-four in the charts that he had committed to memory as a boy. He whispered the words toward the water:

The stronger the attachments

The greater the cost

The more that is hoarded

The deeper the loss

The words left him feeling empty. He gazed into the cool, dark mist. In the distance there were sometimes engines and horns, then the call of gulls.

Eventually he became aware of stirring in the kitchen. Rain still fell but the sky over the lake had become a brighter grey, with pink in the clouds. The door cracked open a moment and an acrid, nutty aroma wafted toward him. Coffee, Shan realized. Corbett emerged with two steaming mugs. To his relief the mug extended to him contained strong black tea.

“You never used your bed,” Corbett said, staring out over the water.

“I used one of your blankets on the floor.”

“Dammit, Shan, it’s no sin to be comfortable.” Corbett’s voice was strangely tentative.

“I like this porch,” Shan said, uncertain why his own tone sounded apologetic.

“It belonged to my great-aunt. The house I mean, and a cottage on one of the islands north of here, way up by Canada, a little place on the water, full of flowers this time of year. She died a year after my divorce and left them to me. Otherwise I’d be in some one-room apartment, which was all I had left when my wife…” He turned away, looking back toward the water. “Dawa and Lokesh and I passed a lake in the night on the way back to Zhoka. A little one, high in the mountains, with the moon reflecting off it. It reminded me of here somehow. Lokesh said we had to stop and offer prayers to the water deities. Now whenever I look at the bay I’ll probably wonder about its deities.”

* * *

Corbett’s mood lightened as he drove Shan through town, speaking of the wet, hilly city, passing beneath a strange giant tower with a saucer top he called the Needle, along the waterfront, then into the parking lot of an old granite building that had the appearance of a fortress. Shan silently followed him up the stairs and through a security station, unable to focus on their task because of the alien sights that greeted him at every step. A woman’s naked leg had been painted down the length of a city bus, with some words about love he did not understand. A huge sculpture of a purple fish hung over a door. An elevated train on a single rail passed above a man sleeping, almost naked, in a metal shopping cart. The somber men in uniforms at the security gate had skin the color of rich chocolate.

Corbett kept speaking to Shan as they entered the FBI offices on the fourth floor, talking more quietly than usual, about the city and its weather, about the ubiquitous ferries, about the mountains nearby, until Shan realized Corbett wanted an excuse not to look about the office, not to look back at the staff who looked up from their cubicles as he and Shan entered a large central chamber crammed with desks, each holding a computer workstation. Some of those at the computers looked up and did not take their eyes from Corbett as he led Shan through the room, others glanced and turned away with something like a wince.

Corbett deposited Shan in a small conference room without windows, with nothing but a large table with a plastic top, plastic chairs with thin, lumpy upholstery, and a small, battered wooden stand bearing a telephone and a phone book, whose pages were all yellow. After a few minutes alone Shan lifted the heavy book and set it before him, opening it randomly. PET ODOR PROBLEM? asked the first entry he read. LET US EXECUTE YOUR AFFAIR, the next said. He read it several times, not understanding. He leaned over the book, intrigued, confused, leafing through the pages. They were all about economic activity, though he understood fewer than half the categories. He was trying to decipher a huge ad that read ACRES OF RVs when Corbett walked in with his two assistants and a third, sour-looking man who nodded coolly at Shan. A red tie hung over his plump belly. He carried a thin file which he dropped onto the table.

“Mr. Yun-” the man with the red tie began.

“Shan,” Corbett corrected him. “His family name is the first name.”

The man did not acknowledge Corbett, but started over. “Mr. Shan, I fear that Agent Corbett acted precipitously, in bringing you from China on American taxpayer money. I was on vacation and could not be consulted. The way I understand things is that he expects to resolve the theft of artifacts from our Mr. Dolan by finding some old plaster painting. He says you and he are certain that the Dolan artifacts were shipped to China, though I can’t see why they need more Chinese art in China.” He paused, as if expecting laughter.

“Tibetan,” Corbett muttered. “They were Tibetan.”

The man ignored him. “He seems to think you are some kind of magician. Chinese supercop, I guess,” he said, examining Shan with a skeptical air.

Shan forced himself not to glance at Corbett. He had not told his superior any of the details of their investigation, had not presented Shan as a witness. “Precipitously?” Shan asked in a slow voice. “I do not understand this word.”

The senior agent cut his eyes impatiently at Corbett and sighed. “No doubt you wanted to see America. I accept that you are one of the leading investigators in your country.” The man paused as he looked at Shan’s cheap clothing and scarred, rough hands. “I’m sure,” he continued in a more tentative voice, “we can find some souvenirs. We have paperweights and pins for important visitors. Somebody can arrange a tour of our crime lab perhaps, have you meet the Chinese consul. This is an American crime. Thank you for your interest.”

Again Shan had to struggle not to look at Corbett.

“Are you aware that another murder connected to the Dolan theft was committed in China?” Shan asked in an earnest tone. “Three days ago.”

“Another?” the man threw an angry glance at Corbett. “There was not a first one. If a Chinese killed a Chinese, that’s not for the FBI.”

“British. She was one of the thieves at the Dolan mansion.”

“You don’t know that.”

“She admitted it,” Shan said.

“Killed by an accomplice then.”

“No doubt,” Shan agreed.

“Good work,” the senior agent said. “Dolan will be pleased.” He threw another frown at Corbett. “I had to hear this from the Chinese?”

“So you would feel good about spending all that taxpayer money,” Corbett shot back.

“It was a crime on Chinese soil,” Shan said.

“Right,” the man replied, confusion crossing his face for the first time. He pulled his eyes from Shan then pushed the file across the table to Corbett. “While you were gone the boys came up with this, an art dealer who did work for Dolan. I agree. He’s the best candidate for the inside connection.” The stout man nodded at Shan and left the room. He had never sat, never introduced himself to Shan.

Bailey, the agent with Chinese features, gaped at Shan with a wide grin and jabbed a finger toward Corbett. “Somebody’s been hosed,” he said in a loud whisper, and his young partner laughed.